


Working Draft

by fencer_x



Category: Free!
Genre: Drawing, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 15:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13437741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencer_x/pseuds/fencer_x
Summary: Rin wakes in a rather unconventional way—and lets Haru know exactly what he thinks about drawing in bed.





	Working Draft

Rin could think of a few good ways he liked to be woken up—a finger trailing lightly down his spine and lingering at the small of his back was always right there at the top of his list, but if pressed, he’d accept a murmured _the bath’s open_ in his ear or even (and this, only because time and exposure had tempered his senses) the savory scent of mackerel grilled near to burnt wafting up the stairs of Haru’s grandmother’s home. Really, though, rousing in any manner not involving a blaring alarm clock or tinkling melody from his cell phone announcing an early-morning spam message in his inbox was a pretty decent way to start the day, so Rin liked to think he was an easy sell.

But the soft _scritch scritch_ of a 2H against some light stock was something Rin was more used to having to tune out over the sound of the evening news while curled up under the kotatsu, or on those sultry, rainy autumn afternoons where it was pouring outside, too hard to chance getting down the slippery stone steps to catch a bus into Tottori-shi. It was not a sound he was accustomed to hearing drag him into consciousness.

He wrinkled his brow, keeping his eyes sealed shut, and frowned around an irritated growl in the back of his throat, hoping these little movements properly related his decided displeasure at Haru sketching in bed yet again. “’S not even 8 yet, you jerk… Some of us like to sleep in on our days off…”

“So sleep,” was the monotone reply, and still the grating _scritch scritch_ continued.

Rin moaned into his pillow before turning his head just far enough to the side to open one bleary eye, straining to make out Haru as he sat back against the headboard, oversized sketchpad open in his lap. The three blurry Harus slowly coalesced into one, and now Rin could make out his features, could see the sharp eyes darting back and forth, from skin to sketch and back, and he quickly heaved himself up onto his elbows, hair askew. “Dammit—are you _sketching me_ again?”

“Don’t move,” Haru mumbled absently, frowning as he groped for the eraser nearly lost in the sheets and rubbed it over a section Rin’s shifting had apparently just ruined.

“I told you to stop doing that,” Rin grumbled, but held still as ordered, distracting himself watching the subtle play of muscle and tendon in Haru’s forearm as he worked. It really wasn’t fair—people weren’t supposed to be _amazing_ at multiple things, not the way Haru was. Sure, he wasn’t Picasso or anything, but it was ridiculous the things he could pull out of his ass given 20 minutes of quiet concentration and the right tools.

His eye followed the length of Haru’s arm up to his shoulder, his collarbone, over the naked expanse of his chest, down to where the rumpled sheets pooled about his hips, covering—

“Stop staring, I can’t concentrate.”

A curling smile tugged at Rin’s lips—this was worth waking up for. “Oh? Am I _distracting_ you?” He shifted onto his side before flopping flat onto his back, rolling his eyes at the strangled cry of disappointment Haru released when he broke his pose. Haru could work himself into a snit over the most mundane of things—everything from bringing home the wrong brand of soy sauce to changing laundry detergents to switching up buoy pulls and kickboard runs during training seemed to be grounds for shunting his gaze off to the side and muttering _so annoying_ under his breath.

He propped himself up on his elbows again, letting his knees flop open dramatically and raising his brows. "C'mon—if you're gonna sketch me, gotta make sure you get my good side." A flash of despair at a perfectly good sketching opportunity ruined was quickly replaced by Haru's usual blank, trained expression, and Rin didn't bother tamping down the bubble of victorious laughter burbling in his chest, feet twitching in anticipation. "Go on, Monet— _draw me like one of your French girls_.”

Haru pursed his lips in irritation, fingers clenched tight around his pencil, but at length he flipped the page and hunched forward, angling the pad for more control as he traced broad, sweeping strokes over the clean sheet. Rin's breath caught for a beat, watching him—he'd been mostly half-kidding, not _entirely_ serious about sitting here, posing in just a pair of his loudest briefs, while Haru put pencil to pad and traced every curve and line and dip and defect. He was hardly ashamed of himself—had self-confidence in spades—but...it was different, somehow, having Haru study him like a model instead of like...whatever they were. And while he understood it was ridiculous to feel that way—particularly when they spent half their time together nearly or wholly nude for one reason or another—it still sent a little trembling shudder of guilt down his spine that all the bravado in the world couldn't cover up.

He glanced away, feigning interest in studying the calendar on the wall; another week, and days like this would be little more than a distant memory as the National League's summer training camps started. They were being shipped to opposite shores of the country this season, six weeks with teammates old and new and likely less than time enough in a day to text _good night_ (not that his inbox would feel any lonelier than it already did for the change, given Haru's almost stubborn refusal to conform to Japanese technological mores). They'd come out the other side stronger, faster, better prepared for the international meets they'd be expected to place in, but they likely wouldn't see each other again until they were standing on the starting block next to each other on some foreign shore. Such was the life they led now—hard-fought and more than worth it, but not without its share of disappointing realities.

He didn't realize the _scritch scritch_ had stopped until a light touch along his jaw pulled him back to face Haru, a thumb gently tracing his lower lip before the hand slipped down to splay over his chest, marveling at the subtle difference in skin tone; the price of swimming indoors most of the Winter and Spring. "Haru...?"

"...You didn't go jogging this morning."

Ah. Rin snorted softly and shrugged. "Like I said, it's my day off; wanted to sleep in." His gaze flicked over to the bedside table—where the pad had been set, pencil and eraser atop it. The curling grin was back. "Artist's block?"

The tips of Haru's ears reddened, but he gave no other indication he was remotely affected by the suggestive tone Rin took. "Something like that," he allowed, and the palm spread wide over his chest began to massage softly, thumb flicking lightly over a nipple as Haru watched him curiously.

Rin wasn't in a giving mood just yet, though—he'd been unfairly denied a sleep-in, and Haru had been sketching him _again_ when he knew damn well Rin didn't particularly care for _that_ kind of attention. He'd have to work for this if he wanted it so damn badly. "So when do I get to see it?" he wondered aloud absently, forcing his breathing to remain deep and even. They'd played this game before, though, and Haru had caught on to his tricks over the years, learning to catch Rin's arousal in the fluttering of his lids and the way he licked his lips and the curl to his toes, so Rin was under no impression that he was fooling anyone. Still, he had his pride, and he'd make Haru ask for it, first. Probably. Like, maybe 70—60% for sure he'd not be the one to bend first.

Haru's fingers were tracing his abs now—fuck the guy had nice fingers, slender and dexterous and not too rough, they felt just _perfect_ when he curled them around Rin's cock, like he'd been practicing his grip all his life just waiting for Rin to slide right in. That'd be nice right now—it was too early for a fuck, Rin wanted to be nice and alert for that, but Haru jerking him off...? That'd be a grand way to apologize for not letting Rin sleep in—and he opened his mouth to say as such before remembering _oops_ he wasn't supposed to be the one to start this, he was supposed to be the one to _make Haru work for it_ , because Haru was a jerk, Haru was an inconsiderate sod who refused to let his bedmate sleep in and enjoy the last weekend they were going to have together for _months_ because the National League was too damn big to let the whole team train in one place and Haru was heading out to Chiba on Friday while Rin took a long, uncomfortable bus ride up to Ishikawa. Haru was _Haru_ , and Rin just had the bad luck to be head over heels for him. Maybe if he'd fallen for Rei, he could've convinced his partner of the importance of rest and rejuvenation so near to summer training camps. Or maybe Nitori he could've frightened into leaving him alone before 10. But he'd _had_ to fall for Haru of course—because really, there'd been no other logical choice. This was just how things worked.

He needed Haru, and luckily enough, Haru needed him back just as fiercely—Rin couldn't reach his dream (really, didn't _want to_ ) without Haru there beside him to receive that medal he—they—were working toward, and Haru, for all his faults and frustrations, had finally accepted that _with Rin_ was where he belonged. Haru could roll his eyes and call Rin a _romantic_ all he wanted; Rin wore the badge proudly and never missed a chance to bask in the warmth of finally being _satisfied_ with his life. He had his future, he had Haru, he had his _friends_. And he was about to have a handjob, too, so really he felt entirely justified in the goofy grin he was sure he was wearing now.

Haru muttered something, and Rin perked up with a, "What?"

"Never," Haru repeated, studying the hem of Rin's briefs with a grave expression, and before Rin could let his confusion get the better of him, Haru went on, "It's not finished." Oh. The damn drawing.

Rin shrugged. "Like I care; I'm not an art critic."

"It's the principle," Haru maintained, and when Rin opened his mouth to tell Haru he was full of shit, Haru fixed him with a sharp glare. "You're distracting me again." And that shut Rin right up as he flopped back down onto his back, inhaling deeply and letting Haru get back to whatever it was he was considering doing.

A finger slipped under the hem of his briefs, inching the elastic down over his hips but not off—just low enough to expose the root of his cock to the morning air, still a little too chilly for naked comfort. That could be easily remedied, though, if Haru wrapped that warm grip around him and gave a few tugs to make Rin forget about the fact that it still wouldn't make it out of the low teens before noon and focus more on how _perfect_ Haru always got the angle, no matter the position Rin had maneuvered himself into. Haru snapped the band lightly, dipping a finger into the little pocket beneath his cock to brush against the base of his balls in fleeting greeting, and he inhaled sharply, opening his mouth and glancing down to give Haru a piece of his mind—before clamping his jaws shut again in sharp reminder that he wasn't supposed to be the one asking for it first. Haru— _Haru_ had to do it, because.

"Why do you keep doing that?"

"Wh—huh?"

And now Haru had his hands braced on either side of Rin, leaning over him— _towering_ over him, more like it—with a curious frown on his features. "You keep looking like you want to say something—" He cut himself off, glancing down at the pathetic state he'd left Rin in, and a light flush of shame pinked his ears. "I...if you didn't want, I could—"

Rin made a little sound of panic, then whipped his arm over his eyes and pinched his lips together, shaking his head from side to side; that was allowed, right? That wasn't giving in and telling Haru that he wanted, really _really_ wanted Haru to just shut up and jerk him off right now, maybe jerk them both off at the same time, because Rin loved watching the quiet, desperate way Haru reacted when aroused, like every fiber of his being was fighting being turned on. Rin liked— _loved_ that he could pull that out of him, relished the little huff of relieved accomplishment he'd let out when he came, fingers white-knuckled and hips executing jerking little shudders long after he'd spilled. Everything they _ever_ did, Haru fought and complained the whole way while Rin dragged him through it, until he came out the other side and realized it was _amazing_. He was convinced he'd never get tired of teaching Haru these things, mostly because Haru tended to always make the effort worth it in the end.

"Good..." Haru breathed, directing his attention fully to the task at hand now, and while Rin would find himself lamenting later (much later) that Haru technically never asked, much less _begged_ , to jerk Rin off, he was still getting a handjob, and that was always a good way to start a day off.

This time, Haru wasted no time, going about the job with methodical efficiency, narry a movement wasted. In short order, Rin's cock was out, exposed, half-hard, and wrapped in a light, lubricated grip that was tugging him to full arousal far more quickly than the romantic side of him would have liked. Sweet nothings would have been nice (if more than a bit forced coming from Haru), or maybe some eye-contact at least wouldn't have been remiss, but Haru was focused on his task, executing deft swipes across the head and trailing fingerpads lightly over the underside in concert. It wasn't _nearly_ enough, not to really _satisfy_ , and Rin allowed himself another cheat. "Hey."

Haru glanced up, fingers still working, now tugging slow and languidly while his free hand started to dig a heel into the damp spot forming across the front of his own boxers. His brows lifted in question, but Rin just shook his head, being sure to hold Haru's gaze. He knew Haru hated this—like Rin hated being sketched, he hated being _looked at_ so attentively, hated being the focus of so much _intense emotion_. Haru always wanted to just do his own thing—wanted to swim with no worries or anything holding him back, wanted to cook the dishes he liked without being griped at for _meat meat meat_ , wanted to jerk Rin off in peace without his attention being diverted to romantic niceties. Except Rin didn't give a shit what Haru wanted, so he made it his life's work to keep Haru on his toes—kind of like right now.

Rin stretched out a hand, fingers trailing in the air until Haru shifted forward to rut lightly against the offered touch—and then Rin had his fingers slipped inside the flap on his boxers, gripping tighter than was probably comfortable, but he had to catch up, so he hoped Haru cut him a break. The grunt of irritation said he was _not_ getting cut a break, though, and Rin mustered a sheepish grin, gentling his grip into something less 'milking a cow' and hopefully more pleasurable. Haru's lids lowered and his jaw fell open a hair, and Rin nearly lost himself watching the arousal wash over Haru's features before he felt a sharp twinge just behind his balls that had him bucking in Haru's grip and releasing a soft gasp. "F—uck," he allowed, ratcheting up his own attentions in an effort to keep up with Haru. He took advantage of the fact that Haru had already been leaking to slick the way, trying to maintain a rhythm to match Haru's own along his shaft.

He was definitely going to miss this—not just _sex_ (though he’d miss that too), but Haru and all of the little things that reminded Rin why he'd never be able to be his own man ever again, why he was doomed to always find Haru in his wake, or himself in Haru's, or a hand stretched out to pull him towards that distant, brilliant light and a soft, beckoning _Come, Rin_ echoing around. Dreams, he was starting to learn, really didn't mean shit if you didn't have someone to share them with—and he loved Gou and Makoto and Nagisa and Rei, and maybe even Nitori and the Captain, just a little, but they couldn't be what Haru was for him, even if they wanted, and he just wished, helplessly, there was some way to let Haru know that without getting choked up or being written off as another stupid saccharine romantic gesture.

"I'll—miss you," came a gasping huff, the words nearly lost in the slick sound of their palms sliding over wet shafts and grunting whimpers of unfulfilled lust, and Rin wanted to stop, right then, right there on the verge of orgasm to pull Haru close and just _hug him_ , because touching Haru was one of the great things in life, being able to— _allowed_ to do it again finally. Instead, though, he just whined Haru's name and spurted a pathetic release that was too tempered by emotion to be as fulfilling as Rin had hoped it would be. His only consolation was that Haru followed up shortly with a seizing shout he muffled with his arm, eyes squinting shut as he jerked and thrust into Rin's hand, dribbling messily before slumping to his back beside Rin.

He wanted to curse Haru, wanted to gripe at him for ruining a perfectly good handjob by getting all _emotional_ on Rin and thereby pushing Rin's own thoughts from pure sexual appetite into remembering that he'd already spent far too much time away from Haru to afford to lose another summer like this. But six weeks wasn't four years, and they'd both be too distracted with training and regimens and time trials to remember that a bunkbed in a lodge with twenty other guys wasn't the second-story bedroom of Haru's late grandmother, that the person breathing next to them was probably a third-stringer who likely wouldn't make the cut that would come at the end of the camp and not the person they'd each come to see as an integral part of their future. _He_ was supposed to be the one who got choked up over the occasional non-mackerel meal and made ridiculous demands like _make me a rice bentou with a nori heart~_ Haru was supposed to be the straight man, the even-keeled one who balanced as much as bolstered. If they both of them let this relationship go to their heads, where would they be?

Haru grunted as he rolled to his side and waddled out of the room to the bathroom just across the hall, and the soft hiss of the tap being turned on said he was already rinsing away the evidence of their morning dalliance. Rin started to make similar overtures, stretching like a cat and smiling at the satisfying crack of joints popping—before his hand bumped the sketchpad still settled on the nightstand. With a final furtive glance and a careful listen to ensure Haru was otherwise occupied, he pulled the booklet over into his lap, flipping through a dozen older sketches—good grief, was that another Iwatobi-chan prototype he was working on?—to the morning's drafts, fingers tracing the image in reverence.

There were graphite smudges and messy sketch lines, sure, but then there were the bits that Haru had obviously focused more on, the curves darker, more sure, more detailed—the shell of an ear half-hidden by Rin's messy bedhead, graceful knobs of his collarbone dipping down into a "v", the flow of his deltoid into his bicep with shading along the valley made at the muscle border, the tiny cluster of moles just at the base of his shoulderblade. These were the things that drew Haru's eye, not some insufferable drive for perfection, but an inexorable draw to these inane details that Rin himself couldn't appreciate.

"You coming in, or not?" Rin jerked up, heart in his throat, to find Haru leaning against the door frame, towel around his hips—and he opened and closed his mouth several times in succession, struggling for words. "You're doing it again," Haru reminded, gaze sliding down to the sketchpad—and while he frowned to see that Rin had been snooping where he ought not have been, he said nothing, merely turned on his heel and marched back into the bathroom. "I'm getting in first," came the hollow reminder, Haru's voice echoing off the bathroom walls and muffled by the space between them.

Rin slapped the sketchpad closed again, clutching it tightly to his chest—he couldn't go in there, not yet. Haru would see him, would see his face and his eyes and wouldn't tease him, but still there'd be the rolled eyes and the unspoken _Romantic_. So he sat there, huddled on the edge of Haru's bed, holding on to the sketchpad for dear life for another five minutes as he gathered himself together—and then he slipped off, sauntered over to his duffel bag, half packed for the camp already...and dropped the pad inside before toddling into the bathroom as well.


End file.
